


and princes kept the view

by tuesdaysgone



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Desolation Row, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-20
Updated: 2009-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/tuesdaysgone





	and princes kept the view

A _Watchmen_ /"Desolation Row" video AU.

  
Standing in the locker room at Pyramid Transnational's offices, shucking his uniform in favor of street clothes, Bob felt a telltale twinge in his wrist and leaned his forehead against the cool metal locker door for a moment, rubbing the tendon gently with his other thumb till the tightness eased. Fuck. He'd had a lot of giant boxes in his shipment today. Was he paying the price for his honest employment, or for his after-hours occupation? He couldn't say. Not like it mattered anyway. He wasn't about to quit either.

Bob walked the few blocks back to his apartment building, stopping at the newsstand on the corner to buy a newspaper and a pack of smokes from Bernie. _Doomsday Clock Is Ticking_ , the headline on the paper proclaimed in bold font, and Bob folded it over with a disgusted shake of the head and tucked it under his arm. After a second's hesitation, he picked up another pack of cigarettes - Frank's brand. Sure enough, when he let himself into his apartment, he felt a waft of cool air. The window by the fire escape was hanging open. He rolled his eyes. "If you're not going to pick the lock on the door, fuckhead, at least close the window," he said.

"Mmmph gnee," he heard from his kitchen. He walked over to the doorway, propped a shoulder against the jamb. Frank was sitting on his kitchen counter, eating Bob's peanut butter straight out of the jar. He washed down his current mouthful with a swig of beer - Bob's beer, naturally. When Bob raised an eyebrow at him, he repeated, "You could give me a key."

"You could give me rent," Bob shot back. "Or get your own fucking place." Frank had been crashing at Bob's place a few nights a week for months. Where he went the rest of the time...what he did with the rest of his time...Bob didn't know. Didn't want to know.

"Got you something better," Frank said around another mouthful of peanut butter. He pointed the smeared knife towards the kitchen table. Bob picked up the crumpled paper bag and peeked inside. "Is this..." He looked up at Frank.

"That Clash bootleg you've been wanting?"

"Where'd you get this?"

Frank smirked. "You might not want to ask."

No, Bob really didn't want to ask. Frank was dirtier than usual, and his clothes seemed to have gained a few jagged rips since Bob had last seen him, at practice on Tuesday. He seemed to notice Bob's perusal, and he stuck his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, cocking a hip and raising his chin. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he singsonged.

Bob felt the tops of his cheeks heat. He flipped Frank off with one hand, turning away to stick his head into the fridge. Grabbing a beer, he cracked the top and took a swig, mumbling irritatedly, "Well, you look like shit."

"Aww, thanks, sugar," Frank drawled. "Didn't spend all day hauling pieces of your drum set around town or anything."

"What the fuck?" Bob paused with his beer bottle halfway to his lips and scowled.

"Building inspector condemned the warehouse today," Frank told him. "Gee and Mikey have to find another place to squat. We moved all the shit to Ray's uncle's storage room for now, but he says it's gotta be out by the weekend."

Bob scratched his chin with the side of his thumb, took another swig of beer. "What a prick. We have a show this weekend," he reminded Frank, who rolled his eyes.

"No shit, Sherlock. Hopefully we'll make enough cheddar to afford a new practice space. If not - " he grinned nastily at Bob, "guess you're getting more roommates. And a shitload of band equipment."

"Fuck, no," Bob shot back. "You're bad enough."

"You wound me," Frank replied, putting a hand over his heart. "After I brought you vinyl and everything." He darted forward suddenly, and Bob's breath rattled in his throat as Frank's quick hands patted across his chest and waist. He delicately extracted the cigarettes from Bob's jacket pocket, stopping to look at the label. "These are my brand. Bob...you do care!" He fluttered his eyelashes dramatically and smacked a kiss against Bob's cheek. Bob was too startled to move, and the lips trailed suggestively across his cheek to deliver a stinging bite to his earlobe before Frank danced away, eyes sparkling. "Using your shower," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall.

Bob heard the soft rattles and thumps of Frank's clothing hitting the floor along the way, but he still didn't move, just clenched and unclenched his hands a few times before pulling out his own pack of smokes and lighting one up. He leaned against the counter, smoke trickling sluggishly out of his mouth, listening to the whine of the water in the ancient pipes. _Clock is Ticking_ , the folded paper proclaimed from where he'd dropped it on the kitchen table, and Bob drained his beer in one last gulp, tossed the bottle into the trash, and headed for the bathroom before he could lose his nerve.

He pushed the door open, letting it slam against the wall. When he wrenched the shower curtain open, Frank was staring up at him with wide, startled eyes, his stupid fauxhawk slicked to his skull and the temperamental shower head spitting water droplets against his chest. Bob took a moment, let his eyes wind deliberately down Frank's body, taking in the bruises bleeding out from under the tattoos, the lean muscles rippling under his wet skin. When he made his way back up to Frank's face, the other man's eyes flashed. "What, motherfucker?" he blustered.

"You're using all my hot water," Bob said, and waited a beat.

"Whaddaya gonna do about it?" So predictable. But beneath the tough-guy sneer there was a challenge of a different sort, and Bob could hear it now. Maybe he'd heard it all along. He grunted and reached for the hem of his shirt. By the time he reached for his fly, he had Frank's attention - his full attention, Bob saw with a quick scan down Frank's torso.

Bob smirked, stepping into the tub and crowding Frank back against the shower wall. "What do you think I'm going to do?" he growled. Tangling his fingers in the longer hair at the back of Frank's skull, he tugged his head back, exploring his jawline with his teeth. He felt Frank swallow.

"Well, why don't you get on with it, then?"

"Mmm, nope. My place, my rules. And I'm taking my time," he whispered against Frank's lips.


End file.
